


A Dragon’s Plea

by Slut_4_Jagermeister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24582805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slut_4_Jagermeister/pseuds/Slut_4_Jagermeister
Summary: Daemon visits his dying father after his hunt
Relationships: Baelon Targaryen/Alyssa Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	A Dragon’s Plea

“I think he would have wanted you to have it.” His brother said as he pushed the sheathed blade into his palms. “The gods know I’d be worthless with the thing.” Daemon’s stomach churned. This was all wrong. 

“Aye,” Was all he could squeak out as he accepted the sword from Viserys. As a child Daemon would dream of being a great warrior that wielded Dark Sister, woe to anyone that stood in his family's way. But now, grasping its hilt while his valiant father's body wasted away only felt like a cruel joke. 

“Our father isn’t dead.” The steel seemed to burn his hands and he shoved it back to Viserys. His brother gave him a look of pity. 

“Yet.” Neither spoke a word. Finally, Daemon brokethe silence. 

“What did he say to you?” Viserys fidgeted. The Rogue Prince had not yet built up the courage to visit his father’s sickbed. 

“Nothing.” His brother would not meet his eye. 

“Fucking liar.” Daemon spat. Viserys cringed, and did not speak. Fury ignited in Daemon’s belly like a bonfire. He needed to fight something, or fuck it. Either would do. He spun on his heel towards their father’s chambers. To his surprise Viserys grabbed his arm, halting him. 

“Dae.” The childhood nickname gave him pause. He turned to meet his brother's purple stare. “You do not want to see him this way. I’ve half a mind to command you to stay away.” Daemon snarled and wrenched his arm away. 

“Fuck your commands.” Viserys frowned as his hand dropped back to his side, but he did not challenge his brother. 

The walk through the castle was a blur until he reached the Tower of the Hand. Two forces dueled over his body- one pulling him forward like he was a puppet on a string, and another desperately trying to pull him backwards. He drug his feet as he climbed the stairs, and bile rose in his throat with each step. Handmaids hurried up and down the steps and whispered in hushed tones when they saw him, flicking their eyes in his direction. The ones going up all had fresh linens, water, and trays of strange potions and salves. The ones coming down only brought bloodied rags. 

The smell of death hung in the air when he opened the door to his father’s chambers. All of the windows were closed and the curtains drawn, and the blazing fire in the hearth gave the room an eerie glow. Grand Maester Runciter was trying to force some concoction down his father’s throat when Daemon slammed the door behind him. Startled, the healer jumped and dropped the full cup. Daemon did not like the man by half, and trusted him even less. 

Viserys once asked why shortly after he arrived to King’s Landing (his brother had taken a liking to the new maester) and the prince could not say. It was something about the way those small beady eyes lingered on his family for what Daemon felt like was too long. When grandfather assured them he was the Citadel’s best, Daemon had laughed in open court.

“Get out.” He said in a voice that brokered no argument. Runciter brokered one anyways. 

“My Prince, I was not expecting you!” The maester gave Daemon a smile that was as sweet as rotten milk. The prince scoffed. 

“I fear it’s not a good time for a visit. The Hand requires my attentions if he’s to get better-“

“The only old man’s leave I require to see my father is the King’s.” He addressed the remaining people in the room. “I gave you all a command, and I won’t ask again.” He grasped the hilt of his sword. The same ghastly smile stayed plastered to Runciter’s face as the servants filed out. 

“I insist. I can have one of my stewards send for you when I’ve finished Prince Baelon’s treatment.” Daemon drew his steel. 

In 5 quick strides the point was at the maester’s neck, pressed just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. The man paled and raised his hands in surrender, backing away slowly towards the door. Daemon kept him at sword point until he passed the threshold and closed the door. 

“Son?” The voice was so rough and low that he nearly didn’t hear. He dropped the sword where he stood and rushed to Baelon’s bedside. When he finally saw his father his knees buckled, and he allowed himself to sink to his knees. Viserys had been right; Daemon did not want to see him like this, but he forced himself to anyway.

The man that lay before him looked nothing like the Spring Prince. In the five short days since he’d complained of a stitch in his side, Baelon had wasted away to nearly nothing. The skin on his arms was loose from the lack of muscle that used to cover him like a seasoned warhorse, and too tight on his gaunt face and hollowed cheekbones. His purple eyes rolled unfocused in their sockets, dull and lifeless, but when they finally found his son’s face they cleared and brightened. Just a little. 

“Daemon,” Baelon’s smile was weak. He reached up to trail his fingers through his son’s hair. “Have I ever told you how much you remind me of your mother?” The Hand coughed, and when he drew the handkerchief away it was covered in blood. He had told Daemon that half a hundred times, but he stayed silent and only gave a slight nod. Suddenly Baelon grabbed his hand from the bedside,  _ hard,  _ much harder than a man in his condition had any right to. 

“You need to protect your brother. They will use him if they smell even the slightest weakness. They will  _ kill _ him. Listen to me.” The desperation in his voice scared Daemon. 

“I’m listening, father.” Baelon’s breath rattled in his throat. 

“I’ve spent enough years at court. The King has summoned the Hightowers from the Reach to serve him, to what means I cannot say.” Baelon’s face twisted before he continued. 

“It’s folly. My mother told me tales of them and Oldtown, how Queen Visenya mistrusted them. In all my studies I’ve never found a reason to doubt her. They are a poison. A sweet one, that hides behind courtesies and beauty perhaps, but a poison all the same.” Baelon paused as a fit of coughs took him. 

“Your brother is able, but I fear he is still a boy in some ways. It takes a man to sit the Iron Throne. You must help him kill the boy, for his and his little girl’s sake. Sweet Rhaenyra.” His father grimaced again, taken by pain. 

“Viserys is not like my sire. He understands the ways of Old Valyria, even though he hasn’t been taught. His daughter will need to be protected, gods know her path will be difficult against these unwashed fools.” Daemon was confused.

“I don’t understand. Why would they kill him? Viserys wouldn’t hurt a soul.” He swore he saw Baelon’s eyes roll. 

“You’ve spent too much time in Fleabottom. People are more straightforward there, I presume. But here, each compliment is a hidden barb, and the Lords will vie for power whichever way they seem fit. Trust me.”

“I do.” Daemon assured him, still confounded. The door of the chamber creaked as it swung open. He wasn’t surprised to see Viserys in the threshold. His knuckles cracked in protest as his father gripped his hand again. 

“Promise me.” He’d never looked at Daemon quite so intensely in his life. It frightened him. “Promise me you’ll protect them no matter what. On your mother. Promise me.” The grip around his hand weakened with each word. 

“I promise.” Something in the room changed, then. The air felt charged, and Daemon knew things would never be the same thereafter. At his word Baelon released the grip on his hand and sank into the bed. 

“Vis..” In the doorway his brother was frozen to the spot like a deer in the crosshairs. He shuffled forward to the bedside, giving Daemon nervous glances. “Give Rhaenyra my love.” Baelon whispered to his brother. “She will be a great Queen.” Their father huffed. Daemon was incredulous. 

“You can’t. You can’t _ die _ .” He protested as if he was a child. From somewhere outside Vhagar roared in grief, shaking the tables in the room. 

“I don’t want to.” Father flashed them a sly smile, the rare kind that only surfaced when he was allowing them to do something against mother’s will, like staying up late or sneaking them desserts.

“Alyssa will be wroth with me for leaving you two so soon. She’ll chase me through the seven heavens and hells.” He coughed, this time with more blood than the last. Baelon shuddered and coughed again. He reached out to grab each son's hand in a weak grip. 

“You must look out for each other, hm?” Viserys was weeping openly. 

“I swear it.” His brother said, lips trembling. 

“Daemon.” The accusation stung. 

“What do you take me for?” On his father's deathbed it felt a folly. 

“I take you for a family man, as I’ve raised you.”

“I’ll protect them with my life. You know that.” His father deflated with the admission, accepting his fate.

“Vhagar-“ Baelon choked out as the dragon roared again. Daemon’s mouth thinned into a line. 

“Caraxes and I will see to her.” His father squirmed under the thick blankets but nodded. He shook as if he was north of the wall, and took a long shuddering breath before going completely still. The Tower Of the Hand groaned as Vhagar landed on it. Daemon saw green fire strike out against the horizon from the window. 

When he turned back Viserys was shaking their father to no avail. 

“Dae?” He sobbed, his face red as a beet. Daemon could barely meet his eye. “Is he? Is father truly?”

“He’s dead, Viserys.” There was no point in misleading his brother. They both seemed to crumple to the ground as one. For another long moment neither spoke. 

“You should find your daughter before the bells toll.” Rhaenyra finding her dear grandfather had died from a servant would do no one any good. Viserys’ mouth opened, closed, opened again before hastily agreeing, and he nearly fell down the steps. And then Daemon was alone with the body of his father, Baelon the Brave, the Spring Prince. To his surprise no one disturbed the room as he sat in vigil. After a time he gently picked up Baelon’s limp body into his arms. The trek down the stairs seemed to last forever, as if he was in a trance. 

Unsurprisingly Vhagar met him at the bottom of the steps, growling and mewling when she glimpsed her rider’s body. Daemon could feel Caraxes’ ire, mirroring his own. He was a whirlwind of anger, grief, and sorrow. Daemon ignored Vhagar and marched through the streets of King's Landing. The smallfolk that knew him and his father bowed in respect as they passed. No word was spoken when the City Watch opened the River Gate. He stepped through and found himself on the King’s Road. 

Daemon carried Baelon to the meadow where his parents shared their first kiss. Surely they all thought him mad for carrying the body of his father through the city and countryside. Not that he cared. As he set Baelon’s body down among the wildflowers Alyssa had loved, Vhagar and Caraxes landed as softly as a dragon could nearby. Daemon stepped back. 

The green she-dragon sniffed at her rider’s corpse, and with a final cry of grief engulfed his body in green flame. With that, the Hand went to R’hllor. The Rogue Prince walked home alone. Viserys and grandfather both refused visitors, choosing to hole up in Maegor’s Holdfast. Daemon turned to the Street of Silk. 

“Nuncle,” Princess Rhaenyra addressed him one day, innocent as the first day of spring. “Father says I’m to be Queen one day.” She bit her lip. “How do I become a good one?” His brother's daughter was sharp beyond comparison. Daemon sighed and knelt. 

“You protect the weak. And keep your promises.” He gave her a smile and tapped her nose. “Don’t worry. You remind me of my grandmother, and she was the greatest Queen Westeros has ever known.” Rhaenyra grabbed his hand as they walked down the hall. 

“And family first.” She finished. 

“Yes,” Daemon agreed, thinking of his father on his deathbed and the oaths he’d sworn. He adjusted Dark Sister on his hip. “Family first.” 


End file.
